Existing

draft of a poem about my relationship with my body as a disabled trans person

I will never wield a wand
Or conjure a fire with the flick of a finger

But won't I hold a lighter to this candle wick?
Won't I put pen to paper? And won't there be ink where there was nothing?
And is it not magic to move molecules? To turn solid to liquid?

Won't I leave ink and graphite? And turn to dust and breathe?
Is it not magic to leave remnants of essence lying around so a stranger may know
that this place is not untouched?

Won't I grow this body just to wear it all the wrongest ways?
Is it not magic to turn on the light and still feel pretty raw?

Is there no other worldly power in standing in a world not made for you
And having the audacity to call this corner home?